


frostbite

by fiddleogold_againstyoursoul



Series: he loves me (not) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, I'm so sorry, Pain, So much angst, Songfic, Songfic Wannabe, Unrequited Love, WHAT IF THE WINTER SOLDIER TURNED OUT MORE ANGSTY, here comes the angst train choo choo, just pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-14 15:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7177049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul/pseuds/fiddleogold_againstyoursoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd take it back, you'd do all of it all over again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	frostbite

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't a songfic, no matter what you may think while scrolling through. For a number of reasons, too: I'm shit at writing those - not like I'm better in any other regard - I just don't know how to properly do that, so the stray lyrics you may recognise from Katherine and Eden's 2012 are not in any way part of the fic in itself, more like a detachment from all the angst you are about to soak in.
> 
> Please bear with me, I'm new to this.
> 
> Also, a few warnings: graphic descriptions of torture, violence, paranoia and delusions up ahead. I'm trying to tell it as it is, and I know there are people out there who are sensitive about this stuff so if you are, you have been warned, and I'm sorry.
> 
> I may not get the timeline exactly right: I'm new to the MCU and Marvel in general, really, and I'm still mapping out these characters and this universe, and I've never been good at first attempts.
> 
> But, hey, enjoy.

 

You'd take it back, you'd do all of it all over again. 

 

* * *

 

 

The first time you meet him, he's a skinny thing that you could probably lift as easily as you would the groceries your ma makes you haul back from the store because your siblings won't do anything to help  - you always seem to have a new complaint whenever she asks you to go with her after a bit - and his clothes are practically falling off of him, slenderly-built thing as he is. You can't discern his exact age; young, certainly, but old in a way that's beyond your time - and his, as well, but you'll never know that, will you? Yet he's throwing punches with the vigour of a drunk grown man, and kudos to him and all, but he's really too scrawny to be picking fights.

(They're also kicking his scrawny ass.)

You pull them off of him, send them scuttling with a few well-aimed blows, and there's a fire in the kid's eyes that makes you laugh, because it's a big fire for such a little guy.

'You okay, kiddo?'

'...thanks,' The kid thrusts his hands into his pockets with the most sheepish expression a human being could possibly make, and maybe because of how stupid he looks, or how he's so very naturally reacting to the situation, you start to laugh. His eyes snap to yours in what can be taken as annoyance, or confusion.

'What -'

'Goddamn, kid.' You wipe your eyes and offer him your hand. 'James Barnes, but call me Bucky. And you're welcome. Aren't you a little small t' be picking fights?'

'Steve Rogers. And no.'

He scowls, and his baby blue eyes flash. His fingers slide from yours, warm and firm.

'Want me to walk you home?' You catch the flicker of indignation in his eyes and correct yourself. 'Not that I think you can't take care of yourself or an'thing. 'Cos you can, can't you? Steve?' The name is experimental on your tongue. You're surprised when it clicks.

He glares at you, as if trying to find a way to be offended at something you said. He fails, though, or seems to, and his shoulders sag.

'You can come with...if you can keep up.'

'That a challenge?' You grin. He rolls his eyes - an expression you will soon become very oddly attached to - and shrugs, little form heaving. 

You follow him home, and that's where it begins; that's where the warmth first sinks in, little tendrils in your belly nervously reaching for the skies as they wait for you to weed them from the feelings that matter, the ones you understand.

But they're not the ones that understand you, nor do they want to help you understand.

They're complicated little things, emotions. 

 

* * *

 

'This is which time, now?' You ask as Steve struggles, beating his fists weakly against where he's thrown over your shoulder. He grunts in return and continues thrashing like a fish out of water, and you nearly drop him. Stubborn little thing. 'You gotta stop pickin' fights, Steve.'

'They called me a  _twink,_ ' He growls. There's a pause.

You do drop him, this time, and you're huffing by the time you can overcome your bursts of violent laughter. Steve glares at you from where he's sprawled on the ground, cheeks flushed deep pink. 'It's not funny, Buck - they called me a girl, too.' He looks so wounded that you stop laughing - just for a little bit.

'Was it because you can't punch for the life of you?'

Becka would kick the shit out of you for that, you reflect.

'I gave him a nosebleed, idiot.' He grabs onto your sleeve and yanks himself upwards. 

'A very teensy -'

'Oh, shut up -'

'Tiny -'

He grabs for you and you twirl just out of his grasp, grinning. 'I'm joking, Stevie. You punch better than when we first met -'

His eyes soften.

'- just a teensy bit - ow!'

You've got several bruises when you go home that night, and get a very severe scolding from your ma. Becka and Bevvie watch on, eyes twinkling mischievously. You flip them the finger when they come too close and Ma starts yelling. Really, you're not a good kid, and a horrible older brother, but if you make up for it by how your sisters are screeching with laughter, then you think you're good enough. 

 

* * *

 

You fall in love - not literally, of course - with Steve's ma, Sarah Rogers.

She's got a head of pretty blonde hair not very different from Steve's and eyes that twinkle rather mischievously for a grown woman's. She's got an adorable laugh - her blonde ringlets tumble over her shoulder and her baby blues sparkle - and she bakes cookies as sweet as sin; she's warmer than the devil's own heart, and takes to you easy enough. You can't tell if you like about her the carefree laugh or the chocolate chip cookies always cooling on the sill more, and decide both. Both is good.

Mrs Rogers, you call her, till she scolds you for it -  _not that old, Mr Barnes, call me Sarah -_ and you grin, because if you even tried calling your ma by her first name she'd probably slap you into tomorrow.

Just to spite you, though, she calls you Mr Barnes, or the even rarer "James".

The Rogers are funny like that.

'Well, if it isn't Mr Barnes,' She begins greeting you at the door whenever she sees you, a smile hanging by her lips, and if it's when Steve is tucked under your arm like a kitten after you've just pulled him out of a fight - for a little guy he sure has an explosive temper and an over-inflated sense of justice - she simply smiles, thanks you (much to Steve's chagrin) and lets you both in, pausing to cuff her son on the head gently.

You stay for dinner time and time again, and your ma starts to worry, but Sarah goes over to yours - despite your insistence for her not to - and your ma becomes a deep and reverent admirer of the beautiful, blonde woman, much to your amusement.

'Bring this for Sarah,' She'll say, thrusting a basket of fresh fruit or baked goods into your arms, and she'll trudge back to the bedroom where your baby brother is waiting to get his diaper changed. Ech. Sarah'll send you back with a thank you and something in return, and soon you start to wonder if you're nothing more than a gift exchange program.

You become a regular visitor at the Rogers household, and you don't know it yet, but you need the company more than you like it - and you like it, a lot.

Escaping to Steve's house is a privilege and one you are immensely grateful for. There's always family there, of some sort.

There's always Sarah's smile and Steve's open arms and the space on the bed for two as Steve reads his (nerd) books and you try to irritate him to the point of getting him to speak - he does, eventually, slugging you in the shoulder or trying to catch you in the teeth, but it's half-hearted and he never lands a full blow. There's always the way Steve yells when you start tickling him - he's especially sensitive around the abdomen and it makes you howl how he wriggles when you tackle him to the floor - and how you'll have to be extra careful when you lie down afterwards in case an avenging Rogers will pounce on you. There's always the key under the flower pot just in case Sarah's not home and Steve's in the shower, and always the way Steve's baby blues light up when he sees you standing on the doorstep. 

There's always a warmth about the Rogers household, and bless 'em, they do become family for you.

(You say family, but which older brother wants to violently snog their younger brother on his pretty pink lips?)

You grow closer over time. You don't question it; it seems perfectly natural...you serving as a sort of older brother for him - taking him to get clothes that fit, though more often than not, just to spite you, he'll never wear them out - and him serving as a _friend_ for you. You taking him to films and expos and buying him art supplies that he loves you for, though he usually just calls you an idiot and tells you not to waste any money on "someone like me", to which you'll respond with socking him in the arm.

Him drawing you as you loll on his bed, pencils flying over the paper - it's always an odd request when he asks you to remain still, but you do it, because he's your friend, and he's good at drawing. (Heaven knows though, that even if he had been the worst artist on earth, you would have regarded any and all of his work as if it rivalled that of Caravaggio.)

Him smiling at the finished work and never letting you see it, for some odd reason, storing it with the others, with the loopy way he signs his name, and -

And you can't name the flutter of emotions in your chest nor the way your heart leaps into your throat when he talks or laughs or moves at all. It's friendship, right? It's how friends react to each other.

For a while that works, telling yourself that: that you're nothing but friends, close friends.

It works for you because you've always thought yourself a ladies' sort of man and nothing but - you have your fair share of dames over the years, and soon show up at Steve's with a new bite mark on your neck almost every day, which Sarah will coo and Steve roll his eyes at. It works for you because you've always been slow to realise feelings, and when you do, they are the most confusing things on earth. It works for you because you're absolutely terrified of what you may be and what it means for your friendship. It works for you and Steve, both, because you both are awkward humans unsure of what the emotions stirring in the pit of your stomachs are and how to make them form words, solid words and thoughts that you can digest, but the truth is that somewhere deep down in that confusion there is a blinding clarity, and it terrifies you.

It terrifies you how clear your own emotions are to you, and how complicated you can make them seem.

But there's a warmth there, building slowly. Every little touch, every word, every time he hands you his new drawing and just waits: expectant, the slightest bit fearful of what you may think. The tendrils have set in, their roots are stretching deep, but you're afraid to let the seeds grow.

So they thrash out on their own in the barren landscape, fight to be noticed and fight till you're a mess with the feelings you don't and don't want to understand.

 

* * *

 

It's a painting of a sunset.

Russet tones and pale orange and pink. Shades fading into each other, overtaken by colours more brilliant, hues more striking, but they each have their own part to play in this beautiful patchwork. You look at it and you feel like you're burning inside; there's a sudden urge to leap into the shades of red and yellow.

'How the hell do you do things like this?' You ask, and Steve blushes. An honest to goodness blush: he goes red and flustered and he drops his brush, immediately going a deeper shade and bending over to pick it up. You crack a half-grin as you watch him, silly little thing. He comes back up, head bobbing, cheeks still red. 'No, honestly, how do you do things like this, Steve?'

'You like it?'

Hopeful.

'It's gorgeous, you idiot.'

He tries to avert his eyes from your gaze, still blushing.

'Practice. I guess. That's what they say, right?'

'You're  _colour-blind_.' You didn't know till Sarah told you, a few weeks ago. It's a surprise, still, how well he works with colours.

'I know how to use colours,' He says, twirling the brush in between his slender fingers. Then he frowns a little more. 'I can see colours, you know, Buck, it's not like...the hell do you think colour-blind means, anyway?'

You shrug. He looks at you and opens his mouth, as if to say something, then closes it very promptly. 

There's an awkward silence.

'Reds and greens,' He says after a while. You look at him, startled, and he looks back at you. Baby blues unsettling. 'I can't see...well, I can't differentiate reds and greens. And uh, browns, I think.'

'You've got more red in there than you think.' You look back to the sunset. Yep, lots of red. Yellow, too, and orange. You can't imagine what it must be like, for Steve to sort through all those colours and not want to rip every hair from his head. You're not colour-blind and you still get confused between purple and indigo.

'Ma showed me how to balance the colours.'

You scoff and fold your arms. 'Hold on, hold on. Your ma showed you - your ma showed you how to balance the colours. Goddamn, Steve, you're something, alright.'

'I got a lot of problems, Buck.'

You look to him and he's standing there, small, frail, pale in the dying light. He is small, and you know he's sickly, too; Sarah is always so worried when you bring him home. You always feel bad for him when he hangs back after a fight, as if wondering what more he could have done. He jumps so easily into one, too, eager to prove his worth. He's a handful, alright, but you've never seen him as problematic.

'...like? I mean, other than the, ah, colour-blindness. And the asthma.'

Steve had once broken into an attack while you were around him, and you'd figured out as soon as he'd reached for his inhaler - it hadn't looked comfortable to use, though, how he'd been wheezing. You'd just been hovering there, panicking, unsure what to do. Thank God Sarah had come in time, or Steve could have choked to death in front of you and you'd have been only wringing your hands and pacing the room.

His lip curls.

'The full list? You don't wanna know, pal.'

'Yeah, I do, _pal.'_  You spread your hands, all defiant-like. A challenge. 'Come at me.'

You look back on that in later days and wonder if that was a little too insensitive.

For now, Steve sighs and looks down at where he's still twirling his brush. 'Um, for starters, I'm a little...deaf.'

'Seriously?'

He looks up at you, eyes wide, and you don't know what he's doing till he puts his hand by his ear and cocks his head, fake - but really well-executed, your Steve's an actor - confusion flashing over his face. Then he cracks a watery grin and drops his hand. 'Yeah, seriously. I mean, it's not that bad, but...'

He goes quiet, and starts kneading his hands together. You watch him move, a million thoughts turning in your head.

'I had no idea, Steve.'

'Yeah, well, I gotta pay twice as much attention - I lip-read, sometimes. I don't want people knowing.' There's an undertone, to that, and when he looks at you with a meaningful glint in his eye, you realise what he's saying -  _don't tell anyone._

'...okay.' 

A genuine smile curls his pink lips, and he looks down at his hands again. His face darkens: the smile disappears.

'Other than that, I got, um, a few stomach problems, and you know I can't run for shit, I dunno what it's called in exact terms.' He laughs, a little, but it's nervous and you scoot towards him, put an arm around him. He tenses at first. Then, he relaxes into the touch. 'And bad eyesight - I dunno what it's called either but it's a long name - and, um...' He seems to hesitate for a bit. 'Don't - don't say anything, but -' 

Steve carefully rolls his sleeves up and you see the ring-like rashes on his pale skin, one of the reasons, perhaps, he's never undressed in front of you, not even on hot days. Red splotches that look painful. Probably are, more than you think.

'Rheumatic fever,' He says, tripping over the words a little. 'Aspirin helps, but my stomach...it's not a good combination, 's all, Buck. Ulcers.'

You reach out hesitantly and he flinches. Immediately you draw your hand away. 'Sorry, sorry -'

'It's fine. I just...yeah. There're a few others, but I don't want to scare you away.' He starts rolling down his sleeves again, and settles back against the bed, worrying his lower lip. 'A lot of these, they're genetic, Ma's diabetic, and...'

'You are, too.'

'Yeah.'

And to think, the only genetics you complain about are the shape of your nose and some other silly thing that seem to mock Steve's. You nestle beside him, trying to digest this new information. Maybe being this sick is why Steve looks to fight people, then - you've heard people call asthmatics burdens, the fuckers - trying to prove that he's worth something, that he isn't weak. Your heart sinks, a little.

'Hey. Don't look like that.'

'I had no idea,' You say, and it comes out mournful, which makes Steve frown. 'I know you get tired easily, and...but goddamn, Steve, you're so... _brave,_ that's the word.'

He stares at you, as if trying to detect pity in those words. And god knows Steve hates pity. He doesn't find it. He'll never find it, not from you.

'Brave is something else, Buck. I just don't wanna die pathetic.'

'The hell do you think brave is? You got through so much, Steve. Look at you. You're breathing. You're here, with me. You fight someone every other weekend and you come home with bruises and scrapes. If I had half as much of the shit you have -' You wince at that, but Steve doesn't seem to care. '- I'd probably give up, Steve. That's brave.' 

His eyes are blank now, and he looks like he's going to cry.

'Bucky...'

'Hey,' You say, putting a hand on his head. It should be patronising but it isn't; he leans into the touch, and it fuels you, the look in his eyes. Your fingers card through his hair, softly, gently - you're scared you'll break him. You're scared he's too fragile for the likes of you. 'You don't gotta be brave anymore, Steve. I'll be brave enough for the both of us.'

'If you knew how stupid you sound,' Steve laughs, but he is crying, now.

'That a new thing?'

He takes a minute to consider it. Maybe it's the hearing, really, maybe all the time you've ever known him to take after you ask a question is him piecing together exactly what you said. You hash a mental note to speak up, next time. 

'No,' He grins, and buries his head in your chest.

You're full to bursting.

 

* * *

 

One day Steve invites you over to the creek somewhere off his house to swim and it hits you.

It's a lovely day.

Steve's not yet in the water; he's shrugging his shirt off but stops just before he does, glancing back at you. You're already bare-chested, wading through the cold creek, and you grin at him - your grin quickly fades when you remember how much Steve's still struggling with self-esteem issues, and you begin to mouth something, presumably _you don't have to take your shirt off, pal._  The words don't come, but he seems to hear them anyway.

He leaves his shirt on and jumps into the water, and you don't nag at him about it. 

_(that's what friends are for, right?)_

'It's so cold,' He shudders, and you agree, because there's gooseflesh on your arms and you're not the type to feel the cold at all. Steve seems to be shivering, and you have the sudden - horribly fascinating - urge to put your arms around him, wonder how his bony frame fits into yours and wonder if he'll hit you for even trying it, the goddamn touch-sensitive idiot. 'Goddamn, Buck, it's cold as balls out here.'

'Language.' 

He laughs because it's so unlike you to call him out for coarse language, and so unlike him to use it. Then a shudder runs through him and you realise his lips are blue with the cold. 

'Kid, you'd better get out, you're gonna die of fuckin' hypothermia and I really don't want t' lug your heavy corpse home.' You think about the various health problems he has and reflect that he really should not be in here at all.

''M fine. 'Sides, I'm not  _heavy.'_

'Oh, yeah?'

He moves around for a bit and just looks so ridiculous, wet hair plastered to his forehead - why does blond hair turn that much darker when wet, and why does that fascinate you so? - and bobbing up and down with that silly look on his face, that you cannot resist sending a huge wave his way. The surprise in his eyes makes you howl with laughter before he bats one back in retaliation, and then a full-out war begins. You're ducking and swerving and splashing all at once, occasionally cutting a few four-letter-words that make Steve giggle like a schoolgirl.

''M comin' for you, Buck.'

'Steve, screw off, you'll never get me -' You are hit with a wave of water, and come up spluttering in disbelief. Then the indignation turns into laughter and you laugh and laugh and laugh till you're crying. You're giddy with laughter and so is Steve, red-faced and gasping for breath, looking like a wreck. He's not shivering anymore, and neither are you - if you were dry you'd be sweating with the effort it had taken you to swerve all of Steve's little waves.

He moves towards you, the water rippling over his form, and you tackle him, taking both of you down into the clear depths. He thrashes, and you're not stupid; you let him surface for air when he needs it, but overall you've got the upper hand in this little water-wrestling game and you revel in it. 

'Christ...'

You swipe at him feebly, weakened by all the thrashing.

 _'Bucky,'_ He gasps, dragging you both onto the surface and swiping at you feebly. You're both gasping for breath with laughter, and when you stop, you see it.

Him.

Steve.

_Steve._

The colours in your world turn too bright, then fade, then swirl till they're a pattern of messiness that only grow in their inconsistency. There's a deep thrumming in your veins, your blood warm though the water lapping at your sides is cold as ice, and you can't quite peel your eyes away from Steve's scrawny form. They can bleed you dry but you think you'll always remember this, when you first realised how deeply you were in love with your best friend.

And he's beautiful, eyes as blue as the sky above, speckled with hints of green that accentuate the baby blue more, plump pink lips split into a grin as he breaks into infectious laughter once more, and you want to pull him to you and hold him close and never let go.

You're full to bursting with that warmth, and it rises to your neck, flushing out your cheeks and flooding you with numbness.

'Bucky?'

You blink. He's staring. The world has gone back to normal, but the glamour hasn't quite faded yet. The warmth is still there. You feel your pulse ever so keenly, so steady, so loud, so insistent.

'This is uncomfortable,' Steve says, trying to peel his damp shirt off his body - it sticks to his skin, wet cotton sliding over pale flesh - and you move towards him, ignoring how your heart is practically in your throat and trying to swallow it back down to where it's supposed to be.

'Let me.'

He flinches when you first touch him, but allows you to help him pull the shirt off. You tug it off his neck, ball it up and hurl it ashore, grinning. It's the least you can do, you figure. Help him. Because for all this time, he's been helping you, and you didn't even know till now how much he's been helping. You're reminded of the warmth and blush again, and you're alarmed with how easily the blood comes back, roaring in your ears with a crescendo that breaks the silence previously only interrupted by the lapping sounds of waves against your calves.

And you understand.

How much lighter the load in your chest is after discovering what makes your heart skip a beat when you see his lanky, pale form appear into your line of vision and how easily and naturally a smile comes to you when greeting him. How defensive you get when you see him in his familiar position in the midst of complete strangers, squaring them off in that childish, yet noble manner. How your thoughts come to a complete stop when you register his baby blues on you - and he does stare, a lot, for no reason at all, pulling away when you catch him - and how little things he does make you feel like the luckiest man on earth.

The way he talks, soft and lisp-like, the way he touches things: how he holds onto you when he bends over to tie his shoe laces and how he brushes crumbs off your face after a meal as casually as if he had done it a thousand times before. How you feel like you'll never be complete without knowing the taste of his pink lips and how he will crumble in your arms, letting down every guard and letting you wash him away.

These things you understand, and these emotions you can place words to, and they register in your mind, but they're still a tangle of confusing, all too human emotions, and you don't know where to begin - and whether or not trying to unravel them will unravel you as well.

But you know about the warmth -

And you know how it burns.

You both have colds the next morning, but if it hurts you to stay at home with the sniffles and think about Steve's baby blues and how they shone, you don't seem to feel it. 

 

* * *

  

Little things. Things like Steve's laugh and Steve's perfect teeth. 

Things like Steve and his stupid baby blues, and how he looks when he begs you to take him to places he wouldn't be able to get to otherwise.

Things that drive you crazy.

Little things.

 

* * *

 

'Look,' You say, and he looks. Then wrinkles his nose in disdain.

'You only think she's pretty 'cos she's got a big rack.'

'What's wrong with a nice rack, Stevie? It's a bonus, really. Also, check out her friend, she's gorgeous.' You realise the friend you pointed out looks a bit like Steve, blue eyes and blonde hair, and flush a little. He doesn't seem to notice. 'Think I should go over and say hi?'

He looks to you, and you can't quite read the emotion in his eyes.

'Don't scare 'em away, Buck.'

'Aw, you have so much faith in me.' You get up, ignoring the fact that you'd much rather be approaching Steve than any of these girls right here, and go right up to the pair. They turn to you sharply, and the one with the rack starts giggling, face red. The one that resembles Steve just lowers her eyes to her skirt and goes pink. They'd been talking about you too, evidently. (You know because you have sisters and they do the exact same thing.)

'Would either of you fine ladies like to join us?'

Your voice is dripping charisma. You sneak a look back at Steve and find he's intently watching you, chin propped up in both hands. Somehow, the fact that he's looking makes you even more determined to put out. 

'I don't know, my brothers always told me not to mess around with pretty strangers,' The first girl titters, and you turn your attention back to her, putting on your best smile. She's really rather cute, to be honest, brown eyes and oval face and pretty painted lips. You've seen prettier, to be fair, but as far as looks go, she's quite winsome. You still prefer the other one, though.

'I'm sure if I had a brother, he'd tell me the same thing, yet here we are.'

She giggles and glances to her friend, who's staring blankly at you. 'Well, what do you say, Cheryl? Do we join this pair of fine young men?'

Moments later, you're all seated around the table, and you're calling for drinks - sodas, of course, it's not quite that late yet and Ma would kill you if you came home drunk. Not like she'd notice, anyway; everytime you got a little too tipsy you stayed over at Steve's. The blond in question is staring at his hands under the table, and is only coaxed into the conversation when the brunette asks him a question.

'Oh, uh, I'm Steve.' He flashes an awkward smile, all flustered-like, and you resist the urge to kiss him right then and there.

_Behave, Bucky, you're literally sitting next to two gorgeous dames, and you still want to pork your best friend._

'Hi, Steve, I'm Ashly, this is my friend, Cheryl. Do say hello, Cheryl.'

'Hi,' Blondie mumbles, flushing as you turn your eyes to her. Looks like someone's got a bit of a crush. You spend the rest of the afternoon talking to her - she's more like Steve than you thought, involuntary shifts in position and stuttering at certain points, but you still keep looking back at him to make sure he's alright. By now he's relaxed, talking to Ashly a little more openly, and you smile at that.

'Steve and I have been buddies since we were kiddos,' You say, turning the conversation back so it includes everyone. Steve glances up at you expectantly.

'Cher and I met a few months ago at the cinema; we both cried so hard at that scene where - oops, don't want to give out any spoilers.' Ashly covers her mouth and giggles, and you reflect that she's quite the airhead after all. Not quite Steve's cup of tea, then, but at least you got to let him have fun for a day. And seeing Steve happy, isn't that worth it, worth anything? Seeing Steve safe. 'We've been friends ever since.'

'Can I tell them about the first time we met, Steve?' 

He jumps, as if he wasn't expecting you to directly speak to him, and goes a deep shade of red. You smile knowingly and turn back to the two girls, shaking your head. 'Ah, it's a rather embarrassing tale, at least on Stevie's part, and I s'ppose one for another day, after all.'

They laugh, and the conversation goes on a while longer.

Then you look back to Steve, and notice that he's fidgeting. Being out in public has always drained him, so you aren't very worried, but he doesn't seem at all happy with where he is as of current. That's not good. You clear your throat, drawing everyone's attention again.

'Well, look at the time, we've got to go. Sorry, but...it's been a long day for the two of us.'

Steve blinks, then something like gratitude comes into his baby blues. Ashly groans.

'Aw, so soon?'

Cheryl doesn't say anything, but her lips press together in dissatisfaction. You make an apologetic face and rise, motioning for Steve to join you. He does, after a bit. You pay for the sodas and then go, winking in the ladies' general direction and earning a few more giggles. Steve is quiet, barely even waving goodbye before he presses out the door.

'You okay there, pal?'

You stick both hands in your pockets as you move along and wait for him to answer. He trudges alongside you slowly. Digesting the question. Considering what to reply. '...yeah. Thanks.'

'Did you have a nice day?'

'With you? Yeah.' You smile at that.

'And, um...Ashly? How'd you find her?'

'I dunno. She's pretty, yeah.' He sounds non-committed, and you wonder what that could entail. Then he backtracks, as if he realised what you could have made of that. 'I mean, she's pretty and all, and I liked talking to her. Yeah, she's okay. How about, uh, how about Cheryl?'

'She's nice.'  _She looks like you._

'Good. That's good.'

'Yeah.'

He suddenly stops walking and you turn back, mystified. He's looking at you with a strange expression on his face. 'Out of the blue, but d'ya maybe think...that, um...that Cheryl girl...'

'Yeah?' Did he like her? He hadn't talked to her much at all, aside from that awkward introduction. You suddenly feel a little bit jealous. More than a little bit, really.  _Pull yourself together, Buck, he mentioned her, he didn't say he wanted to fuck her._

'D'ya think she kinda looks like me?'

You freeze. He's still staring at you, and you find that your pulse is racing, irregular little beats of...something. You stare back, running your tongue over your lips in an absent-minded way, tugging at the thoughts in your head. Trying to think of a natural response to that.

'...come to think of it, yeah, a little bit. Blonde, small, ah...blue eyes, yeah, she kinda looks like you. Kinda shy, too.'

'You don't find that weird?' Steve asks, and you realise what he's saying.

 _You stupid idiot, I don't want her, I want you, but I can't have you, so I'll settle for anything else instead. I don't give a rat's ass what she looks like, as long as she's here, because I'm in love with_ you.

You say none of that. You grin, instead, and pull your hat on more firmly. 

'Nah. You find it weird?'

'A little bit, yeah.' He keeps walking, though, and you gather that he's collected what he needed to know. Whatever  _that_ is, anyway. 'So long as you're happy, I guess.'

'Yeah.'

'Are you gonna see her again?'

You consider it - small Cheryl, blonde and cute and everything you can't have. Pink lips like Steve's except glossed over lightly with something sparkly and the adorable way she looked at you from underneath her eyelashes, like she was being shy. Then you think of Steve, the rings on Steve's arms and the way he strains to hear you in crowds, the fingers he dips in paint and smears over your face with a shriek of laughter, the way you want to kiss him more and more everyday, and you smile. Adjust your hat again.

'We'll see.'

 

* * *

 

It's your birthday. Steve is in the corner, standing awkwardly as he watches your friends billow by, talking and laughing. You glance up from your game of cards and then throw your deck in, ignoring the protests. 

'You okay, pal?'

His eyes flicker over with surprise when they settle on you. He didn't seem to have caught what you said, with how loud the music is blaring, and you repeat yourself, rounding out the syllables.

Steve nods, trying to smile. 'Parties aren't really my thing,' He shouts above the din. 'It's so...loud!'

'That's kind of the point,' You grin. 'Go meet people. Come on, don't be a buzzkill -'

'Buck, I can't. I just...I'm okay.' Steve looks troubled, and you stop pushing. He hangs his head. 'You should go back to your card game.'

You look back to where a ginger whose name you don't remember has taken your place. 'Nah, they swapped me out already. You don't have to stay if you don't wanna, Steve. How about we ditch this party and go out somewhere? Take a midnight stroll. We won't exactly scandalise the neighbours.'

You see hopefulness in his eyes, but doubt takes over. 

'You should probably stay...it's your birthday. Don't wanna steal you away.'

'Don't be an idiot. C'mon, let's go. They won't even notice us.' You shepherd him out of the house - Ma and your sisters have gone out for the weekend, and Billy's at your aunt's. It's much quieter outside, less raving and less shouts about people taking shots. 'God, that feels great.'

'Yeah.' Steve looks up at the starry sky, eyes shining. 

'Let's take a walk before they notice we're gone.'

'Who's gonna notice I am?' 

You frown at that, but he's slipping his hand into yours, and you nearly yank away as soon as he makes contact. It's not exactly new for him to want to have an odd arm draped around you, but holding hands seems to be toeing the line a little, at least by Steve's standards. No one's going to hear you complaining, though. You curl your fingers tight around his and try to force the blush away - you feel it rather fiercely, and are glad for the cover of the darkness.

The neighbourhood is so peaceful at night. Nothing but streetlights and the occasional bark of a dog. 

'Are you ever scared, Buck?' Steve's voice rings out, and you jump. You were staring at the sky. 'I mean, of growing older. Do you ever feel like your life's just...going away? Year after year. Just slipping from your fingertips.'

'Who died and made you head philosopher?' He looks at you, frowning a little, and you falter. 'I guess. I mean, I've never been one for sentiment, Steve.'

And yet you're here, holding the hand of a boy you've loved for a very long time. Unrequitedly. You are sentimental, you big oaf.

'It's pretty like this. The sky. All starry - ah, I'm no poet.' Steve laughs and then coughs, and you turn to him immediately, face creasing up in concern. He waves you away, coughing into his fist. 'Fine, just a little...cold. I'm fine.'

'Jesus, you should have brought a jacket or somethin'.' 

You strip off yours and put it around his shoulders - freezing when you see how he looks in it, small and helpless, swathed in that big patch of material.  _Fuck._

'Thanks. Um, we should probably get back. I mean, apart from me freezing to death - or coughing myself to it, we'll never know - your guests are probably wondering where you are.' Steve draws the jacket firmly around his shoulders, and you hesitate.

'I got a better plan.'

'Oh?' His eyebrow lifts, a challenge. You grin and tug him along. 

'Come on. With luck, it'll take like ten minutes. Come close and I think you'll weather through alright.'

'Hello? Who is - oh my goodness, boys, what are you doing back so early?' Sarah opens the door and laughs at your expressions - you're huffing with the cold. Steve is practically shivering. She lets you in hurriedly, and you wrap your arms around Steve before you can think about it. 

_Oh, fuck._

She doesn't even lift an eyebrow, but goes into the kitchen and starts making drinks for you both. Steve shivers in your arms and you tuck him closer, aware of how close you are. He's so small like this, the strange way his spine goes melding somehow perfectly into the crook of your elbow. He buries his face in your chest, breathing deeply. You're cold as balls, too, and you want to kiss Sarah when she comes out with two mugs of warm chocolate - and you tell her so. She laughs and ruffles your hair, ignoring the fact that you're much, much too old for hair-ruffling now.

'You're a sweetheart. Thank you for bringing Steve back, I was worried he'd be alone at the party. Not that I don't trust you,' She corrects, when you both look at her. 'But Steve has always been a little...shy.'

'Don't I know it.'

Steve rolls his eyes and sips at his chocolate, immediately wincing when it scalds his lip. Both you and Sarah jump up in concern.

'Christ, you scared me, idiot,' You pull the mug from him and start blowing on the chocolate to cool it down. Sarah is bending over him, fussing like a mother hen, and Steve looks so overwhelmed that you want to laugh. 

'I'm not a little kid, stop coddling me.'

'You act like one at times,' You admonish, returning the mug. He rolls his eyes at you again and mutters a thanks around the edges of the mug. 'Sorry, what was that? Couldn't quite hear you, Stevie.'

'You're horrible.'

'Love you, too.'

You freeze over when you realise how that could be interpreted, but Steve's just rolling his eyes again, taking drafts of his chocolate.  _Stupid me. Overthinking things._

Sarah's smiling, watching you both. You remember that she's there and pull away, going back to your own armchair. Your cheeks are hot - you keep thinking about how he slipped his hand into yours, and how little he was in your arms, just shivering. _Love you, too._ Thankfully, the light here isn't as good, either. You inwardly rejoice.

'You boys can pull out the cushions and sleep on the floor as usual,' She says, drawing your attention once more. 'That's if you want to stay over, Mr Barnes.'

'Course I would. Couldn't leave Stevie alone, now, could I?' 

Steve just does what Steve does best - roll his eyes. 'Sap.'

He still rolls close to you when you're all tucked in and ready to fall into the arms of Morpheus or whatever the hell his name is, though, and makes your breath hitch just the slightest. And maybe he looks like he's about to kiss you, and that just does amazing things to your pulse. But he just lays his hand against your jawline in a soft sort of way, and whispers, 'Happy birthday, Buck.'

You lie still, not sure if you should move...not sure if you'll be able to.

'Good night, Steve.'

'Good night,' His breath ghosts by your lips, a taste of what's to come. Then he rests his head against yours and falls asleep, and you do after a while, too, after the ache in your trousers has faded a little and after your breathing has started syncing with the gentle snores of Steve.

 

* * *

 

'What do you want to be when you're older, Buck?'

You snort and look up from your magazine - there's a babe laid out on the two pages you've directed away from Steve, and her jugs are humongous, but your heart just isn't into it. (And neither is your dick, to be frank; you have to jack off before you come over to Steve's or you'll be more focused on the strain in your pants than in his ears when he's trying to make out the words you're mumbling.) Steve is sprawled out across from you, round glasses on and pencil over his ear, frowning over a crossword. 

'Me? I want to start a business, methinks. Take our great country by storm.'

'You always dream big.'

'That a bad thing? Oh. By the way. Six letters across, starting with "s", meaning strict or harsh, "severe".' You grin as you watch him roll his eyes and fill in the word. 'What about you, Stevie, gonna be an artist when you grow up big and strong?'

'I guess I want to, but...' He throws his head back and seems to consider the option. Looking so serious then, all glasses and little pout, that you feel like kissing him. You become aware of how you were staring all too much at his lips and pull your eyes away. 'It's really a dead industry, huh? I mean, there's no chance of me - almost, ninety-nine percent no chance - actually getting somewhere with it. I'll probably starve. Van Gogh's work wasn't fully appreciated till he was dead.'

'You're not Van Gogh.'

'I wish,' He says, a wistful smile on his lips.

'No, you don't. Dude cut off his ear. You already have bad hearing.'

'Sorry?' Steve's raising his hand to his ear when you tackle him, hard. He gives a small grunt and both of you roll off of the bed, landing on the floor. Thank God for Steve's piles of laundry - clean ones, you hope - or that might've hurt real bad. As it is, you both wrestle for a bit before he gives out, blue eyes blown wide in exertion and cheeks flushed pink. You pull yourself upwards and pin him down, grasping his wrists and holding them in place above his head, where he can't try to punch you (again, he landed an actually good one only moments before).

He goes still and so do you, and you realise the position you're in.

You're so close that if you leaned in just the slightest bit, you could probably kiss him. His glasses are crooked and he looks like he's fighting to stay cool, the beginnings of a smile breaking out at his perfect pink lips. His hair is dishevelled - neat little Stevie's perfect blond hair, all messed up - and it lies in strands, on the ground and lying stray across the creases on his forehead. Most of all, he's not moving, as if he knows you're looking at him and he wants you to look, wants you to be able to appreciate and worship every inch of him.

Your heart is practically hammering in your throat at this point.

_Fuck, you're beautiful._

'Well.'

You try to smile, and he does in return, a tad shyly. You are all too aware of how hard you are right now, and how you haven't spoken other than that one word for a full minute...and counting. Two minutes. Then three. Neither of you are bold enough to move the slightest inch.

_Don't look at me like that. Do not - fuck, don't look at me like that._

'Steve...' You bite off the end of that sentence before it's too late, but it comes out a throaty growl, and you see Steve's pupils dilate behind his glasses. This is real, this is happening, you think, as his fingers snake past your neck, find the back of your head and hold there. Stroking the ends of your strands of hair, looking like he wants you to kiss him. Oh, god. Oh, sweet lord. 

_Pull yourself together, it's just_

_(his fingers in your hair)_

'Buck,' He manages, and you say fuck all and kiss him. 

He whines into your mouth a little before he's kissing back, fiercely, wildly, an animal untamed, and you close your fists in his clothes, yank so there's momentum to the kiss. You think you could come from this alone; the blood's rushing to your dick instead of your head and you are so, so hard right now that Steve moans everytime you brush up against him - and considering the fact that your bodies are practically pressed together, is often.

Then you abruptly pull away because he's starting to shake and gasp for breath and you pull away, horrified, but he only takes a second to recover before he pulls you in for another - all he needed was to catch his breath, _what am I worried about?_ Every nerve in you is so finely-tuned that you shiver at every small sound Steve makes when your tongue touches somewhere sensitive. You put a hand between your thighs to try and calm yourself down a bit, but all it does is make you hungry for more, more touch, and more importantly, more Steve.

'Bucky, I want to - I want,' His voice is a growl of heat, but he's so small in your arms like this, and your teeth knock into each other as you kiss again, frantically. You're so hard right now it actually hurts, so turned on by the mewls of pleasure in Steve's throat

It's only moments before Steve's pulling away again and you feel fingers on your zipper, trying to free the painfully straining hardness in your jeans.

 _This is every wet dream I've ever had,_ you think, and you pull back - regretfully - to finish the job. 

But only for a moment, because then you're leaning back in and your lips are smashing against his in a way that should leave bruises - you can only hope so - and his fingers are stroking, shying past, awkward and hesitant and yet making up for inexperience with  _longing,_ the look in his eyes and the way he's groaning your name. You feel like it's a religious experience, having Steve Rogers touch you, and you'd keel over if it meant he even looked at you with interest in his eyes, so that says a lot.

 _'Jesus fuck, Steve,'_ You whine when he gives an odd jerk, a twist of his wrists, and you're on the edge right there, panting and wheezing. You tap out immediately, trying to latch onto something definite. Anything, anything to keep you from blowing your load too soon.

this isn't real this isn't real it can't be

 _'Bucky,'_ and you snap back to reality and he's panting underneath you, cheeks flushed dark red and fingers still working at your cock, so carefully yet so eagerly, broad strokes and pumps that are both lazy and bold in a way that makes you unravel slowly from the inside. He's hard, as well, you can feel his bulge; you so gently run a hand over it and he actually gasps.

'Bucky Bucky Bucky  _Bucky,'_ Steve chants, hips rolling involuntarily, need leaking from every word. And god he's beautiful pressed to you like this, eyes scrunched in want and toes curling and rocking ever so needily against you, eager for friction. You let out a whimper and yank his clothes off, all of them, relishing in the way he cants upwards, hungry for your touch. He isn't touching you as much but that's alright, you're already close; you run your hands up his body length and he's panting so loud he sounds like he's dying. You check, of course, if he's alright, but he waves you away with another moan and a jerk of his wrist and that's where you snap: you come, and for a moment you're delirious with the euphoria of it.

'Oh, God, God, Steve,  _Stevie, Steve, good God, you're beautiful,'_ You breathe, looking back at him with a twinge in your chest, a reminder you've somewhat neglected him. His stomach is streaked with your come, and fuck, if he doesn't look absolutely debauched.

'Bucky, Buck -'

'I got you, I got - shh, shh, I got you, Steve -'

You press a thumb experimentally against one nipple and he positively sobs, jerking and whining. You didn't think it was even possible for men to be sensitive around this area - you certainly aren't - but you love the sounds he makes and you explore the area a little, licking over it as he chokes out your name. And then you move to the next, fuelled by his moans: they turn louder, his breathing more ragged and uneven, and you think you might be getting hard all over again, which is impressive.

'You like this,' You whisper, and he nods so hard and so fast he looks like he's having a seizure. 'God, Steve, I got you, I got you, it's okay -'

'Bucky  _please, please, Bucky -'_

You indulge him, guide your mouth past his slender body, and gently use both hands to spread his legs. He whines when you run your hands along his thighs, and his hips jerk in an odd dance-like movement you'd find hilarious anywhere else. But for now, it's so hot and you're so close, but you hold on, running your tongue along the inner part of his thigh. The reaction is explosive: he shouts, and his entire body shudders; he's close to tears and you really don't want to prolong this anymore, as fun as foreplay has been. 'Shh, shh, shh, Steve, you're going to wake the neighbours -'

_'Bucky, please -'_

You close your mouth around his cock and he shudders. It sends a shiver through you, as well; you lick at the precome and Steve whines again, hands fisting in your hair - he's so forceful it both surprises you and turns you right the fuck on. You apply suction the way girls have done for you, and are pleased when he starts shaking; he's probably never had someone's lips around his cock before and you are strangely proud that that is so. 

_Fuck, Steve, I'm possessive already._

You try something different, twirl your tongue around the tip, and that does it: he comes with a scream and a shudder and you choke for a moment, unsure what to do with the hot sticky fluids in your mouth, but then you swallow it down and it isn't that bad after all, it's Steve's, after all.

Steve lies still against the ground, eyes half-closed, breathing slowly returning to normal. Suddenly you're scared of what comes next: what do people do after sex, just  _talk?_

'Steve -'

'Stay here,' He mumbles, and turns to you, going pink around the cheeks. 'We can - we can sort all this -' He gestures to himself, you, everything. '- out, later. Stay, please.'

_I can't._

_You're killing me._

'It's a one-time thing, right?' He asks in a throaty voice, and you feel raw, so, so raw. You feel like someone's stabbed you with a needle full of anaesthetic and they're twisting the needle around but you can't feel a thing. He sounds faraway. Your dick gives another weak little twitch. 'Buck - Buck, this isn't, this isn't us, right?'

_You're killing me, Steve Rogers._

'Yeah,' You manage to grit out, and you feel light-headed as you sink back next to him. He's so small. So small. 'Yeah, Steve, this isn't us.'

 

* * *

 

Sarah knows, you think, Sarah's always known.

Sarah sees the way you look at him, after all, when he's dropped something or when he's immersed in a new novel. 

Sarah sees the small smile spreading over your face when he does something particularly, stupidly adorable.

Sarah sees the ache in your eyes, just the slightest bit, when you look at him and you think,  _fuck, I love you._

Sarah knows.

Dying from TB, Sarah knows.

 

* * *

 

 

The nicest people get the worst ends of the stick, you reflect, on a cloudy day on which the clouds seem to be conspiring who to murder first, the moisture thick in the air and in the corners of your eyes, but you wipe it away and there's no sign it was there at all but the puffy way your eyes must look and the streak stains on your cheeks.

Sarah Rogers' funeral is nothing like what her life was: it is gloomy and dismal, and quiet hangs about it - the solemn kind of quiet, the worst sort. 

You think of how she used to laugh and lament that she would much prefer a happy send-off than what this is - boring, droll and oh so horribly stuffy. She was a darlin', wasn't she? - so cheerful, so beautiful, everything Steve deserved and more. And yet death had taken her so easily. She'd been happy till the end, smiling, fingers brushing your face and Steve's, talking till her voice was a hoarse whisper and even then refusing to stop.

The nicest people were the worst off in the end.

But Sarah smiled, and Sarah smiles still, and Sarah's smile will be imprinted in your memories till the day you die.

So you smile when they lower her coffin into the ground, and smile when you go to place the fresh flowers you got from your garden on her grave. They're calla lilies, beautiful and fresh and everything Sarah was - everything she will always be in your memories - and you press your lips to them for a brief moment before dropping them onto the fresh mound of soil. You bow your head, closing your eyes and letting the silence wash over you -  _Sarah, love, I hope you're dancing in heaven with the angels right now, and watching over Steve and I still. I'll take care o' him. I promise._

Sarah knew, didn't she?

She always did. She was the one who caught you staring at old photographs of Steve when he was in the other room and she was the one who smiled at you when checking on Steve in his room before leaving you two alone. She was the one whose hand Steve had held for so long when he'd been younger and the one who'd entrusted you with it so many years after.

_(take care of him)_

You sway a little, catch yourself, then straighten. 

_I will._

You put on your hat and look around, searching. Most people have left; flowers have piled up on the grave and it's a sweet, cloying scent that makes you want to retch.

Steve is standing a few feet away, talking in polite, clipped tones to someone, and you don't like to disturb him, but you hang 'round till he begins to pack up and leave. You drop some way behind him when he starts walking for home, and you're loud enough so he knows you're there, but he doesn't initiate conversation and you don't, either. 

At least, not till he's approaching his home - it's so empty without Sarah in it, cold and quiet and nothing like the Rogers household you remember, always full to bursting with joy and warmth, the joy and warmth that Sarah radiated - heading up the steps with his awkward posture, that you reach out and catch Steve's sleeve. He jumps and turns, baby blues startled, as if he'd forgotten you were there.

'I was gonna ask -'

His eyes crinkle up, and he laughs, but it's bitter. 'I know what you were gonna say, Buck, it's just -'

Steve breaks off, and his baby blues flash with something akin to pride, stubborn pride, perhaps, but stubbornness has always been something you found endearing and it's by a tenfold when Steve displays it.

He does know. And he does  _know,_ too.

'We can put the couch cushions on the floor like when we were kids,' You try, but he's turning the key in the lock and you know you won't convince him; he's _stubborn_ that way and you love him for it every bit as fiercely as you hate it. 'It'll be fun - all you gotta do is shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.' You're smiling but he's not; he's not even looking at you, his hand on the knob.

It doesn't turn.

You sigh and kick at the nearby flower pot, revealing the key you got to the house a long time ago. 

'C'mon.' He takes the key, and long is it before he glances up to meet your eyes. His are conflicted.

Storms trapped in baby blues.

'Thank you, Buck.' He lowers his gaze. 'But I can get by on my own.'

'The thing is...' You hesitate, then step closer. He's staring, and you nearly run for it, how close you are to him, how one movement, one look from you could give you away completely. These thoughts touch you like they have every right to, to intrude upon this relationship and your life and how it intertwines with Steve's. 'You don't have to; I'm with you til' the end of the line, pal.'

You put your hand on his shoulder because it feels right, and he leans almost instinctively into the touch, but catches himself just in time. You think you're burning up. You think this must be what dying feels like.

'Steve...'

'Hey.' He reaches out and cups under your chin, fingers trailing past your smooth jawline - you shaved sometime ago, and the stubble hasn't grown back yet, but you can't help but wonder what it would feel like, his fingers carding through the rough hairs. Like sin, you think. Like sin, and like heaven itself. 'I'm okay.'

(It's your imagination that his voice has dropped two octaves. It's your imagination that he's trembling ever so slightly.)

The warmth is back, filling you to bursting, and you feel it flow through every atom of you, every molecule and every fibre of your being. Feel it burn with a fierce intensity.

_Sarah, are you laughing at me from the clouds?_

You close your eyes and try not to melt completely into his touch.

'Say that again,' He says suddenly, and you glance at him, startled, to see his pupils dilated, see the expression on his face that you're terrified to believe is real. 'Say you're with me - with me till -'

'I'm with you till the end of the line -'

Steve grabs you by the tie and kisses you.

It's messy, the kiss, mainly because you're in shock. And you desperately want to believe that this is all just shock. His hands shift from your tie to your hair, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with his lips - it's the same as before, oh, God, it's the same - and it's all you can do to try to salvage the pieces of yourself and pick up where he's failing. Your lips slide against each other's, warm till they're not, awkward till you take control and it's anything but: it's pure and it's innocent and it's  _Steve,_ eyes scrunched tight with what looks like apprehension, but maybe a little hopefulness as well. 

He pulls away and you fall apart; he surges back in and you pull yourself together again.

_Jesus Christ, Steve -_

He kisses and breaks away, comes back and hesitates, fingers unsteady in the tangle of your hair. 'Buck, I - Buck -' He looks absolutely gorgeous, lips pink and swollen and eyes open in what looks like full-blown lust, and you don't even think before you're kissing him again, the warmth a blaze inside of you, eating you up.

'Bucky.'

He breaks away again, eyes still wide, but this time more of shock than anything else. His cheeks are flushed, hair moussed, his clothes are dishevelled and so are yours, but you don't even bother checking them. You feel a horrible numbness course through you as you realise what that is in his baby blues - a deep regret, maybe even horror. 

'Steve -'

'I can't, I can't - I'm sorry -'

'Steve -'

_(_ _n_ _ot again don't do this don't do this not again Steve please)_

'Good day,' He says, throws open the door, and closes it in your face.

 

* * *

 

Little things, you agree, with the voices in your head.

Warmth, and the cold, and how they contradict each other.

 

* * *

 

You don't talk about the kiss again. You don't talk about sleeping together and the fingers around your cock and your lips around his.

You go back to what you were before it, friends: you laugh like you used to 'cept there's the memory hanging around you and the dread of facing it sets in every time you close your eyes. You kiss girls same as before, except every time you slide your tongue into their mouths you're comparing it to the feel of Steve, Steve's soft lips opening to yours and Steve's eager, yet afraid, hands tangled in your hair and Steve's little gasps as he pulled away to breathe - and it kills you when you open your eyes and what you see instead are a pair of cold painted lips and eyes never as blue as Steve's, fingers threading through your hair never as strong yet feeble as Steve's and never the same fire that lit up your stomach on the day Steve kissed you.

And he kissed you.

_(he kissed me)_

You carry on putting your lips on girls and Steve putting his fingers in paint, and he becomes pretty decent at it, enough to land him in an advanced art class at school. You become better at boxing, a heavy weight champion, and though you're proud of yourself and Steve, you swear Sarah would have laughed then cried if she knew what her two boys were doing right now.

_(because Sarah knew)_

So you don't go back to the way you were before; you never do, not really, not even long after. The time you spent together seems to have disappeared completely, and you're devastated by it - all the progress you ever made lies in pieces at your feet and all you can do is brush them away and start over again.

Then America joins World War II, her colours flying proudly with the not quite arrogance only the young and reckless can pull off quite so well, and somehow that brings Steve Rogers back into your life, and closer than ever. You both find out in 1941, at an art class of Steve's that you sit in for - a girl poses for the class in only a robe, her grin blinding as she teases you and the rest of the men with her slip - and there are mixed reactions to the news. A blond promptly bursts into tears and is lost in the flurry of noise that drowns the entire class; it's exciting and frightening and horrible but amazing all at once and you can't help but glance at Steve when everyone's going 'round announcing that they're sure to be drafted next.

His eyes are shining, and your heart sinks when you recognise the look in 'em.

You can't protect him forever...why did you ever think you could?

 

* * *

 

we once fell in love and now we're just falling

once we were falling

and now we're just stalling

 

* * *

 

 

Steve is turned down in New York. The doctor takes one look at his scrawny physique - ignoring how much weight Steve's gained after the weeks he spent being trained by you in Goldie's - and at his various health ailments and tells him he's saving his life, and you've never seen the blond more crushed by anything.

'Steve, it's okay, I bet they turn down loads of people.'

Your fingers are on his shoulder but it tenses under them and you pull away.

'Yeah. Sure.'

'Kid -'

'I'm fine, Buck.'

There it is, that stubborn pride, flashing out of baby blues.

You take his shoulder again despite how he scowls, and pull him into a crushing hug. There's no intent behind it, no flutter in your chest nor even the slightest twitch in your eye as he sinks into you, and he shifts, surprised, hands moving to your back and holding there. Awkward, but appreciative. The warmth is there, though, tickling your insides and making your pulse race - your chest feels lighter than it had before, but you hold him because he's your friend, and you want him because you love him, but you don't hold him because you want him. All these thoughts don't make sense but they do and you don't care if they didn't either way, so you just hold him and he holds you back, till the sky above you turns dark grey. 

He pulls off of you slowly, and you walk back in silence.

You're tired, and you just want to sink into a mattress and sleep forever.

 

* * *

 

'Do you want to see something?' You ask, and Steve turns around from clearing up his paint set.

You reach out and swipe a streak of red over his nose.

'Wha -  _Bucky,'_ He protests, rubbing at it, but you're laughing and being the pouting child he is, he snaps open a tube of brown and smears it over your cheeks in return. 'Come on, that was childish.'

'Yeah, comin' from you.'

Your hand snatches out and you press green against his chin instead, prompting a spluttering of laughter and more wild protests. 

'Buck - oh, you're on.'

You chase each other around his dingy new apartment, and when you trip over each other, you become a panting heap of colours. 

Just to spite you, Steve rubs his paint-covered hair into your shirt, and settles there, as if he has every right to. You freeze, but he doesn't seem to notice it: he's faraway, and it must have been a long day for him. You haven't been this close since...

Well, since the kiss. Since your limbs tangled and since the day Steve Rogers took you apart and handed the pieces to you as solemnly as if he'd simply found them lying on the floor somewhere.

'I miss Mum,' He mumbles, and you tense even more. Then you relax, and his small frame falls against yours.

'She'd call us idiots right now.'

'Not Mum.'

'Yeah? She called me an idiot plenty.'

'That's cuz you are.' He grins at you and you feign a wounded expression, clutching at your chest. Then his face falls, as if he'd thought of something. 'You're probably gonna get drafted earlier, though.'

'I'll wait for you. Can't have Stevie not joining the war, can we?'

Your tone is playful. You are not.

_Would that be such a bad thing?_

'Hmph. Fine. I'm sleepy.'

'Go to sleep.'

'You're in my house.'

You make as if to stand but he waves you down. 'Nevermind. We're both sticky, anyway. Want to shower?'

'What?' You redden, but he glares at you like you're an idiot. '...oh, yeah, but you take one, first.'

'You are an idiot,' He complains, but he goes anyway, twitching his nose like a rabbit at you.

 

* * *

 

but you're no longer mine

 

* * *

 

 

You get drafted, and shipped out to England after the winter's worth of training. 

You see the hurt in Steve's eyes when you tell him, deep and horrible and so much more than what you'd prepared for. 

'One-o-seventh. Sergeant James Barnes.' And you wish you didn't feel like you were glowing when the ranking came out of your mouth - that's all it was, a ranking, but it means so much to you and it takes every bit of self control you have and the look on Steve's face to dash all your pride away. '...shipping out to England first thing tomorrow.'

'England,' He mouths, as if trying to digest it, and his expression makes you feel like someone's stuck a rusty dagger in you and twisted the blade. He glances at his hands and then back at you, managing a small smile. 'That's great. I mean, that's amazing, Buck, I'm happy for you.' 

The worst part is?

He's not lying; he is happy, the idiot, happy that you got drafted and wrenched by the thought of you leaving without him.

You want to kiss him and hug him and hold him all at once and you want to watch him fall apart in your arms but you also want to put him back together and hold him till you're sure he'll never be hurt again and it hurts you, how you can't do any of that, and how you have to settle for an awkward smile exchange instead.

You take him to the Stark Expo - you watch Howard Stark fly and crash his flying car prototype and groan when it drops - but he's not there, and you can tell, even though the girls are smiling at him and you and your eyes are glued to the futuristic exhibits that would take more than a lifetime (or theirs, anyway, but you don't know, do you?) to be available to the public. He disappears for a bit and you go to him, urge him to come back, ignoring that your heart is hammering against your ribs and every instinct in you is tensing for you to grab him like you did when you were younger, and run away and never return.

'You're enlisting again. You're really gonna do this again?'

It comes out a snap, and you wince a moment too late.

Steve lowers his head like a petulant yet chided child, then lifts it, eyes defiant. 'Well, it's a fair. Gotta try my luck,' He says, and that's when

_(a little part of me died knowing I was his for ever)_

you figured that he was lost to you and everyone else, lost to the world till he could find himself a part to play in the world that was changing around him so rapidly, moving so fast it was throwing all of you off your feet and sweeping you into a world where all you could do was hold on and hope you'd live through it once more.

And still you're fighting because some part of you wants him to stay, wants the little boy from Brooklyn to be safe, away from a world of war and a world of dying and a world where nothing feels safe anymore, and you're also fighting with yourself because the rest of you wants him to come with you so badly that it's tearing you apart. Cold hikes up your back and squeezes its fingers around your throat, and you're strangling yourself but you can't even pull away.

'As who? Steve from Ohio?' He flinches, again, and the dagger twists once more. 'They'll catch you. Worse...' And you hesitate, because you don't know if it  _is_ worse or not. '...they'll actually take you.'

His fists clench, in sleeves much too big for him.

'Look, I know you don't think I can do this...'

_(that's not it)_

_(I love you)_

'This isn't a back alley, Steve,' You hear yourself saying. 'This is a war!'

'I know it's a war, you don't have to tell me.'

_Please stay. Stay because_

_(I love you)_

_you're my friend and I don't want you to be hurt, please Steve, please, stay._

You argue some more, but you don't know what you're saying; there's a ringing in your ears and you know this is futile: when Steve sets his heart on something he'll try till he either drops dead or gets it, and neither of those options are what you want, what you ever wanted for him. 

'There are men laying down their lives,' Steve says, and he sounds like he's trying not to cry. Trying to be brave, and he doesn't need to be, not around you. 'I got no right to do any less than them - that's what you don't understand. This isn't about me.'

'Right. Cause you got nothin' to prove.'

He flinches again, but a sort of steel comes into his eyes that makes you, in turn, recoil on the inside.

The warmth dies a little, uproots, shrivels up in your chest. He stands there, hugs his arms to his chest and looks so miserable that you want to hug him, but he'd probably knee you in the crotch.

You leave, and it hurts so bad.

"Don't do anything stupid till I get back."

_Don't do anything without me._

"How can I?" Steve grins. "You're taking all the stupid with you."

"You're a punk." You hug him because it feels natural and right, and certainly not because of the butterflies in your stomach and how they flutter, making every thing Steve says amplify in your head by a thousand.  _Goodbye,_ you think, and in more ways than one: you'll never see your Steve in this light again. 

"Jerk. Be careful."

_I will. Promise._

_"Don't win the war till I get there!"_

 

* * *

 

You dream about him, the smell of soap on his collar, the sounds he makes as he squirms beneath you. Eager, wanting, so beautiful, so small as he spills over into your arms, whining and groaning, scraping at you. You dream about more intimacy and less of the pain. Less of the regret and the shock and the way he turned away from you to close the door in your face. Less of how for the next few weeks he couldn't look you straight in the eye and neither could you. 

You dream about him, and it keeps you going, one horrid day after the next.

 

* * *

 

The Nazis overcome your unit.

Gabe is screaming and Dugan seems to be doing the best he can considering the circumstances, but your reinforcements and backup plans are non-existent, and the tank that barrels in crushes every resistance you make.

War doesn't care if you're young, if you're married, if you're a parent or if you haven't lived out your life: it takes, cruelly, mercilessly, takes without thinking and you have come to realise that in the time you've spent with the one-o-seventh, but it sinks in deeper when HYDRA takes you.

_Prisoner of war,_

that's what you are now, and you think as your chest aches with the sort of longing that would make the you of the past cry, but you're not the same ol' James and you don't think you'll be, not ever again.

War changes people, too.

It doesn't just change them, either: it takes them apart and holds their itty bitty pieces and if you're lucky enough to survive it, it hands them back to you - but you know you'll miss parts of them and that they stole that, too, the ability to look at yourself in the mirror and consider yourself whole.

 

* * *

 

only looking through holes in my fingers

but my skin is healing up

 

* * *

 

You think - you know - you're sick, but you bite down hard on the discomfort and go trudging out to work, and when something goes wrong, you only watch as it falls apart at your feet.

(Everything falls apart at your feet, somehow. You weren't born for lasting.)

When you get back, Lohmer does things to you that make you scream and cry and beg for mercy, but all you can do is fall to pieces in front of the people who watch with their eyes wide and scared, hands balling in their clothes - but they don't do anything, they stand there and watch, even as the blood flies from your head and the sound of your bones breaking screeches through the air like a siren - they don't do anything to help, and you're glad they don't, and you wish they would, and you just want to  _go home, you want to be safe, and -_

_'Jimmy,'_

And you're home, your ma is running her fingers through your hair and muttering about how you need to get it cut; Becka is bouncing up and down with her pigtails swishing and a big grin on her face. You're home, sitting with Sarah and Steve, and a big tray of cookies on the table between you, and Steve is smiling. Steve is smiling and your heart is full to bursting. Steve, you think,  _Steve,_ and you think about the kiss and how his fingers had tangled in your hair, knocking off that stupid hat, and you feel the warmth spilling from your lips as they're forced open.

_I'm with you till the end of the -_

'Goddammit, Barnes, don't die on me.'

You open your eyes and Steve is gone, but the coolness pressed to your lips is a flask of water and how eagerly you gulp it down. Your head is spinning and your vision's all yellow, and you don't know if you're dying or already dead but death shouldn't hurt so. 

_Prisoner of war,_

that's what you are now, and you want to cry your eyes out.

''M fine,' You croak, and Jones looks like he's about to slap you. The worried faces of Dernier, Falsworth and Dugan bloom over you, but you can only barely make them out. There's what tastes like blood in your mouth, and a horrible ringing in your head. 

_Steve._

'You're not, your ribs have fallen in, you've got a bad fever and you will not live to see another day if that bastard makes you work tomorrow.'

'He'll kill 'im if he has to, but he won't let 'im stay back,' Dugan says mournfully.

'We can tell Kleiber -'

'Kleiber won't do jack-shit and you know it.'

You close your eyes and your head falls back against the softness of one of their laps - dimly you can still make out their voices, but they're so far away. Are they talking about saving you? You don't know whether you can be saved, by now. You don't know if you want to be. You don't know if you even deserve to be saved - you've been trodden upon and strangled, and you feel dirty, violated. Impure.

_I want to die_

and you don't, because Steve's still alive and you don't want to face the prospect of stepping into the next world alone.

So you sleep instead, dead to the world.

 

* * *

 

little ray of sun, do you think we're done?

 

* * *

 

They kill him. They kill Lohmer and make it seem like an accident, and you don't know what to say.

But you don't say anything anyway, because the sick gets worse, the warmth seems to leave more by every passing second, and you feel like you're on the brink of death. They take you away from the Valkyrie and to an isolation clinic.

Arnim Zola, the name is, and he makes you scream.

You become his little lab rat, strapped to a metal table as he hovers over you with syringes and needles and wires; you scream when the fluids running in your veins make you feel sick and make colours blossom over your vision. This is dying, you think, but you've thought that before, and this is only the beginning of your dying. He tests how fast you heal from the injections - looking surprised when he leaves you alone and comes back to find you alive - what you can survive and what makes you  _scream and tear at him with fingernails they already pulled out._

'Oh, God, please,' You scream when he first starts, and when it's been so long since you've been lying there that you've lost track of time and all concept of it, you scream for your ma instead, your ma and Steve and your sisters and even your baby brother who used to throw up all over you. 

You think about your family more than you can help, and little things - you remember how ma's hair was greying at the ends and how your sisters used to squabble over black licorice that you, personally hated - you remember how your little brother lisped when he was trying to form words - you remember home and you remember steps you tripped over when you were smaller and less able -

He repeats the process over and over, using different things - rusted nails and knives and anything with a dull edge because he knows it hurts ever so much more - and each time it feels like a different sort of hell. One time he uses a butter knife, rubs it over your skin till you scream because you can feel your flesh tearing slowly with the friction, and how he revels at your pain, is fascinated by it. He tests how much pain you can endure before you start to rebel against it, trying to sit up only to feel the bandages tearing and the pain explode behind your eyes. 

Fevers make you dizzy and drugs make you loopy with hallucinations, and twice you nearly burst into tears because you think you see the shadow of Steve in the room. The infections spread over your body, rashes and nasty bruises and cuts that don't seem to heal, and he cuts you up like the side of a beef and presses a finger to your lips so you don't scream - it takes all you've got to not bite down on it, hard.

Once, you do, and the blood in your mouth is worst than what he does to you after.

You bleed from the inside out and it hurts, how it fucking hurts so much; the blood drips out your ears and your nose and half the time you're delirious with blood loss and the other half you're crying from the pain - because there is pain despite how numb you feel, and there is the biting cold, and the cold is ever present.

That's when you start dreaming; you space out when he takes the needles to your skin and you're soaring high above where you lie on the table. 

You start walking around the room - you see the syringes lying on the table beside and the glint of metal hovering over your skin - you see the poison he keeps bottled up in tiny vials that you know would kill you if he so much as administered one more drop than he usually does - and you start flashing back to memories that you thought you'd lost after all this time. You see Steve and you touch Steve and you hold him to you; you're pulling him out of alleyways and laughing as he trips over himself trying to talk to girls and breathing in the scent of his shampoo as you hugged him goodbye all at once and you cry because it's real but it's not and it's tearing you apart.

And every time you touch him, you snap back to life as the knives run over your skin and he cuts you up more.

Every time you flashback to kissing him you can feel the prick of a needle and your blood spilling and it hurts all the worse.

Zola punishes you for spacing out, but every hallucination feels more real, and soon reality itself is slipping away from you. The colours in your world hurt now, and the tears don't come as easy - you don't want to give them away when you know you have cried so much already - and every sound you hear is a new explosion of pain in your head. The cold drowns you completely; half the time you're numb and can only stare as he tears at your skin, the other half you're so sensitive the slightest prick feels like hell.

You start wondering

_was steve ever real?_

 steve without a capital "s" because steve is suddenly no more than a name to you, a name that you 

_loved_

love and you don't know why saying that name both hurts and heals whenever Zola is driving nails through your skin; all you can do is tighten your grip on the table and think about steve, and think about sarah and think about a life gone.

You've lost count of how many times you've screamed a name that is suddenly empty to you.

That's why you don't believe it when he comes, all tall and glorious and everything you used to be, and when he saves you you don't understand. You don't understand if this is real and if not, what is real, and why steve is suddenly Steve again, and how the blue in his eyes makes everything better and worse all at once - you want to cry because you don't understand but you do, all at once, and these thoughts are confusing, and confusion hurts your brain, so addled by the drugs and the pain.

'It's me,' The real steve says, and you find you're free. 'Steve.' With a capital "S".

You escape but it never escapes you.

The cold never really leaves after all, Soldier.

 

* * *

 

little ray of sun, do you think we're done?

 

* * *

 

You recover over time, but it still hurts, sometimes, where he cut and where the blood flowed and where he pressed needles into your skin. But you recover, and your memories are back - for the most part - but it still makes you sit up in a puddle of sweat sometimes in the middle of the night, and every unwanted touch makes you recoil, then turn 'round and slug the unfortunate offender in the face. There's something different about you, too, other than these memories, but you don't know. Maybe it's the PTSD. Maybe it's the irrational fear of things near your face.

You do more lying 'round than fighting, really.

Resting.

Still hurting, somewhere, inside.

But Steve is back and you are back and that is all that matters, isn't it?

Steve, and his stupid baby blues, and his stupid blond hair and stupid furrow between his eyebrows that you both love and hate. If you focus on his face it might seem like he's the Steve from Brooklyn you remember, Steve with the grin and Steve with the charcoal smudges on his hands and  _Steve._ But he's not Steve, and he is, and you don't know why you hate yourself so much for recognising him as the Steve he used to be. He's taller, bigger, better-looking, but you think of how well the smaller Steve used to fold into your arms and something pricks at your eyes a little whenever this Steve comes and asks for a hug instead - it's a rare occurrence, now; Steve's gone on this Agent Carter and you should feel happy but you don't: you feel absolutely miserable.

_D'ya think that Cheryl girl...kinda looks like me?_

When he asks you to join the Commandos, you hesitate - if only because you're sick and tired of war and everything it's ever done to you, swollen flesh under nails torn out as they lash out at a face that is both entertained and disgusted - but you don't even think about the decision; the hesitation is something that comes naturally but the thought isn't. 

'You ready to follow Captain America into the jaws of death?'

_Captain America._

You'd laugh but your ribs are still healing so you smile instead, bite back the extra mirth.

'Hell, no. The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight,' You say, and for a moment you see something flash in Steve's baby blues. Something that makes you wonder if he understands what you're really saying. 'I'm following him.'

He smiles, slowly, and you think

_he knows._

and you think

_he's always known, in a way._

 

* * *

 

i'm fine

 

* * *

 

You work together. Destroying bit by bit of HYDRA like they destroyed you. It's the retribution that should make you happy, but you find yourself strangely moody - moody as day after day Steve grows closer to Agent Carter. Moody as day after day Steve becomes less of the Steve you used to know, and yet so much of the Steve you knew he was. Moody because maybe Zola took a little bit of your humanity away from you as well, or maybe because you, deep down, are a good person despite it all and killing this many people is heavy on your conscience.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

Zola's still out there. 

The name sends you into shock sometimes, when you're lying awake in open space and you're reaching out for something to hold. Willing and needy. You do need a lot, nowadays. And no one gives it to you.

Triggered: by the smallest creak of the floorboards, by the light whirring of the fan on a hot night and by the shriek of metal on metal. 

He took something away from you. More than your humanity. He put something in its place and it's growing, thrashing about and sinking its teeth into your body, but you don't know what it is - you're scared of it, but you get better and better and you don't want to see the infirmary ever again. 

You find you're a decent shot and you become the regular sniper of the group: there's something about lying still and waiting as people move in the open, oblivious to the things you could  _do_ to them if you wanted, that really gives you a thrill.

Sometimes Steve smiles at you after jobs, and you wonder then why you ever questioned yourself why life was worth living. If it meant you even got a twinkle from those pretty baby blues, you could screw the whole world over and yourself in turn.

You bide your time, and so does he, but there has never been enough time for flirting in this world, and Time is a dick.

 

* * *

 

everything i say comes out wrong

 

* * *

  

Days before you're lost to him, this him and the other, Steve asks all of you - Agent Carter included - out to dance. You accept without hesitation because it's Steve, and if it were for Steve you'd wade through a sea of your own blood. It goes without saying, somehow, Barnes and Rogers, Sergeant and Captain, and people assume it's as he's a higher rank than you and you're trying to kiss ass but you know better, you and Steve both.

Steve knows and he doesn't, and you feel like you're melting every time the admiring look in his eyes isn't directed at you - which it rarely is, nowadays.

Something about you wants out of this life -

Wants back in Brooklyn, pulling Steve out of alleyways and grinning as he protests that he could've taken them all, scrawny thing. Wants back in Sarah's kitchen with the scent of freshly baked goods wafting around you both. Wants back in Steve's bedroom as you lie reading a comic book or porn magazine - something that makes Sarah laugh and Steve blush bright red - as he draws you, pencil furiously flying over the paper. Wants back home, really, anywhere but here on the battlefield, blowing up something every other day and building something the next.

Wants Steve back, same ol' Steve, small Steve that would grin at your stupid jokes and crack stupid jokes, and giggle like a girl - the Steve that splashed you with water in the creek and the Steve under your arm after you found him fighting again, and the Steve that kissed you.

You look at Steve now and know that he will never be the same again.

And honestly, neither will you.

 

* * *

 

 

You still dream, but you're afraid of dreaming, now.

You're afraid of falling asleep to kissing and holding Steve, and waking up to Steve shaking you, telling you to go get ready for another mission. You're afraid of the nightmares that come when memories don't. You're afraid of memories, too; even memories hurt, now.

_If you knew how stupid you sound._

_Is that a new thing?_

_No,_ and a laugh that rips you apart.

 

* * *

 

You're on a mission that will be your last with the Commandos, though you have no way of knowing, do you?

It seems simple enough: board the HYDRA train, capture Arnim Zola. Preferably alive, though there's no knowing what you will do if you do find him - you think about the blood and the needles and lying, the infections hurting worse and worse. It'll be dangerous, sure, but then every mission has been. Every mission will be, you think, and you don't know how wrong you are.

You glare at the zipline as if it's personally offended you.

'Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone on Coney Island?' For a moment you're afraid he doesn't remember, and this will turn out like the other memories you have that aren't real - the memories the doctors tell you were created unconsciously because of the trauma of all you've experienced. And that's stupid, because he's Steve, and Steve has the memory of an elephant, and you can't have dreamed that up -

'Yeah, and I threw up?'

Warmth rises to your chest, a flutter of relief. 'This isn't payback, is it?'

Steve grins and your heart soars, then drops miserably down into your boots. 'Now, why would I do that?'

He turns back to the other Commandos, who are grinning, entertained by your little exchange. 'We've only got a ten second window. You miss that window, and we're all just bugs on a windshield.'

'Ay, ay, Cap,' They certainly look solemn enough. You look at them and you realise, with a pang, that this is family. That you chose this family.

 _No regrets,_ you think.  _Not at all. Ma would be proud._

_(and Sarah, too)_

You should've kissed him, then, pulled him in and planted his lips on yours, and carried on with the mission immediately so there would be no time to react. You should've looked to him and mouthed even something akin to what you knew he knew - _I love you,_ and  _I've always loved you_  - you should have even reached out and hugged him, lamented the difference in how he melded to your body in the embrace then and forever now. But you don't, because James Buchanan Barnes is not one for sentiment - you always have known there might not be a tomorrow, but you don't know then and you'll never know, now.

Maybe some part of you, dying in the ice, knows, and that same part sobs one last time before it is drowned by the cold.

 

* * *

 

 

_You don't gotta be brave anymore, Steve. I'll be brave enough for the both of us._

 

* * *

  

 You're in the train, you and Steve both, and there's something wrong, something bubbling inside of you. Something frothing at the mouths and clawing at your insides, but you swallow it all down and heft your gun anyway, searching the carriages. Steve glances around, steps into the other carriage, and you sidestep slowly towards him, but all too slowly.

The doors between you slam shut and HYDRA soldiers burst through, fully armed. 

'Steve -'

You both spin back to the doors and you see the mingle of expressions on his face and yours - shock, fear, dread - before you whirl back to meet an entire group of soldiers.

You're jumped by three of them, who are surprisingly strong and fast despite their bulk, and your world flashes fast. Grapple, throw, shoot. There was a time you were squeamish about killing: that time is not now, and you put both down with little to no stirring in your conscience. You're swinging around to shoot the third when you realise your ammo's run out.

_I swear, if this is how I go..._

The door slides open and Steve is against the wall, staring at you. Baby blues composed, but hiding a layer of panic. He nods at you and you see the gun in his hands. You're confused for a moment, before he rolls his eyes at you

_(I miss that)_

and tosses it.

You twist and catch the gun, brilliant and beautiful as it arcs through the air. A flash of blue whips past you, and the soldier looks stunned, trying to follow it - you shoot him, and his head explodes into red and pink bits of brain. Ech.

'You okay -'

Steve shifts in front of you, shield at the ready.

The sheer force of the assault rifle blows the entire side of the train open. The pressure drops and you can feel the bite of the cold outside, the depths so far beneath your feet. Steve drops his shield and you both fall to the side. You go sprawling, and groan - it has done a number on your healing ribs, and you try to claw your way up.

He aims again, and you reach for where Steve's shield lies just beside you, but the shot comes too soon, too fast; you slide, toppling, and desperate fingers claw at the ground...you're hanging off the edge of a rail, the sickening drop only moments away from where you dangle precariously. 

You're dizzy: you don't know what to do. 

 _These are my last moments,_ you think, and you die a little bit inside because you know they could have been so much better. You grip tight on the rail, but it's giving way and your fingers are growing numb, and Steve is still...

_'Bucky!'_

Steve is hanging over the edge of the train, eyes blown wide in fear - he loves you, always had - and reaching out, but you know that if he even tries, you'll both go toppling down into the abyss below. He's screaming your name, screaming your name, but not in the way you wish he would, the way you remember like he did:  _Bucky,_ he screams like it's a god he's praying to and you want to burst into tears.

And  _oh god he's coming towards you and reaching, still screaming you stupid boy you beautiful boy I love you so much_

The rail snaps -

_BUCKY_

(I love you, Steve)

you're reaching to him before you fall. Even as you fall. Even as you can hear him screaming his throat raw from where he is, and you hear the little crack in his voice that makes you know that he's crying. And you hate yourself for that, making Steve cry.

_I love you ma I love you Becca Bevvie and Billy and_

_STEVE I LOVE YOU SO MUCH_

You fall. And you hit, hard. And you sink into the depths.

 

* * *

 

You don't remember anything about the ice.

But you remember how cold it is.

 

* * *

 

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* * *

 

There's a memory in the husk of the body floating in the ice. A memory that bubbles quickly to its numbing mind before evaporating completely, a ghost of a name, a word, a burble of laughter that dies into nothingness.

Paint-covered fingers swirling bright patterns into the skin of an arm that worked yet, an arm used to hard labour.

The same burble of laughter but magnified, loud and brilliant and so, so genuinely happy: it echoes and echoes before it fades forever.

A name, but the name isn't ready to be heard for a long time yet -

A name -

His name -

Who is he?

A capital letter.

Blue, blue, blue.

Paint and a perfect smile. 

A name, a name, a name. Lowercase letters.

thoughts that come out like this all funny and blurry and sinking with no end nor beginning and you begin to think that is all you could have ever begun to think that is all you could have ever thought in the first place there is no escape for this you cannot die something keeps you alive keeps you afloat but keeps you dying over and over and over and you hold on tight to the memory you still have of steve steve's fingers making art on your skin the skin you used to have the skin all blurry red and cold and numb steve's eyes baby blue and beautiful and so so steve you have to hold on because

steve's fingers on your skin steve's lips on your lips steve's tongue in your mouth steve tiptoeing steve saving you steve steve steve steve

 

* * *

 

everything i say

everything i say

everything i say comes out

wrong

 

* * *

 

someone finds you and it's not a good someone but it's not like you have a choice either way.

they take you in and you can't even scream anymore.

they keep you prisoner and they hurt you but it's not zola until it is until you see zola after so long - you don't know time time is irrelevant now it took away everything your memory your coherence your humanity steve - of a time and you scream and scream till your throat is hoarse which is funny because you didn't think you had a throat anymore how little you had to use it

he straps you down again and if you look closely you think you can see him grin because you're back and no one is going to save you now everyone thinks you're dead and you should be dead you want to die because surely death would hurt less than this

they saw off what remains of your arm and attach a new one for you but it's not the same it's not

(steve's fingers on your skin covered in paint and swirling)

it's not

(steve's fingers tightening around your skin on hot summer days in the creek near his house)

it's not yours and you hate it and it's everything you can do not to scream

(because they make it worse if you scream they take you off the ana anae anaesthetic and it hurts like hell and mama would yell at you for using that word you know she would mama would be mad mama always was pissy about cussing)

and then the experiments start and you end. 

 

* * *

 

i love you but it hurts to

 

* * *

 

_Longing._

Touching Steve. Holding Steve. Smiling at Steve. 

Seeing Steve at the Stark expo, heart not into his date nor the exhibits, mind on how you'd been drafted and how you'd be shipped away so soon.

Touching Steve. Holding Steve.

Steve and you in his room on a lazy Sunday, sprawled over the bed as Steve etches you into his drawing book - the book he won't let you touch because he says it's private, little wuss. Steve yelping when you pull on his foot because he's scared of monsters under the bed, has been scared since you bought him that book of horror stories that Ma wouldn't let you read Becka, but you know he'd die rather than admit it.

Touching Steve.

Steve laughing in the creek, blond hair plastered to his face and shirt stuck to his back. More sweat than anything else. Steve giggling as you push him under. Steve wrapping his arms around your neck and trying to strangle. Steve pulling you in after Sarah's funeral and Steve kissing you, kissing you harder than you'd ever been kissed before. Hearing his strangled moans as you twirled your tongue around his cock.

Steve.

steve.

Fight. Fight against. Fight. Hold on to these memories. Hold on, Bucky. Hold on, Bucky.

 _till the end of the line, pal_  

 

* * *

 

i love you but it hurts

 

* * *

  

_Rusted._

Closing your eyes. Waking up. Going to sleep.

Steve's arms around his pillow and his soft snores. Steve after the serum, Steve in all his glory sleeping in the bunk below you. Steve making you feel safe.

Closing your eyes. Waking up.

Steve shaking you awake, the rest of the Commandos already dressed and armed. Them grinning. You laughing as Steve pours a bucket of cold water onto your head. Steve nudging you awake. Steve rolling onto his side and telling you you had to get up, that it hadn't been a grenade after all. Steve's wide eyes as he realised it was. Steve.

Closing your eyes.

Steve. 

steve.

 _Fight for me, Buck._ Fight for Steve. Fight for Sarah. Fight against

(what?)

Hold on, Bucky, hold on -

_till the end of the line, pal_

 

* * *

 

i love you

it hurts

 

* * *

 

_Seventeen._

They can't take you, not yet.

Nineteen-seventeen. That's what it reads on your birth certificate. Nineteen-seventeen, so long ago (what is time how old are you in years in minutes in months please). Nineteen-seventeen, thank God for nineteen-seventeen.

Mass. Sitting with Ma in Mass. Becka and you trading whispers when you think Ma can't hear, then both getting a cuffing on the ear when you get back. Billy bouncing on Ma's knee.

Nineteen-seventeen. That's what it reads on your birth certificate. How long ago was nineteen-seventeen?

_(He's still triggered)_

_(He still has memories)_

_(He's still)_

Nineteen-seventeen.

_(Do it again)_

Steve.

steve.

steve's voice

Fight for me, Buck

_(why do I keep fighting?)_

_till the end of the line_

 

* * *

 

i love you 

hurts

 

* * *

 

_Daybreak._

Paint? A painting of a sunrise.

someone painted it.

you don't know who.

you don't know if it matters who.

the sunrise is pretty.

_steve._

_till the end of the line_

 

* * *

 

i love

hurts

 

* * *

  

_Furnace._

Needles. Needles and twisting fingers. Cold, so cold. They push it in and pull it out. So cold. So cold.

You're so sorry so sorry so sorry so sorry so sorry so sorry

you're sorry

you don't know why.

_steve._

_till the end of the?_

 

* * *

 

i love hurting

 

* * *

 

_Nine._

A

R

N

I

M

Z

O

L

A

ARNIMZOLA (9)

HYDRA (9 HEADS)

NINE

_s?_

_till the end._

 

* * *

 

i love how it hurts

 

* * *

 

 

_Benign._

paint.

Paint and fingers.

Push, soldier. Push. Push to remember.

(what am I looking for?)

_till the_

 

* * *

 

 

i love hurt

 

* * *

  

_Homecoming._

Ready.

_till the? till the till the till the -_

 

* * *

 

i'm hurting

 

* * *

 

_One._

_till._

 

* * *

 

hurt.

 

* * *

 

_Freight Car. Good morning, Soldier._

Ready to comply.

 

* * *

 

i'm alive, you think, but no you're not but you don't know that do you no one tells you that what is alive anyway alive is living and living is not dying

so if living is not dying why do you feel like you'll never be alive again

why do you feel like something is missing

 

 

* * *

 

It feels so good.

Comply, bend, break.

It feels better than good.

Shoot, take, hightail the fuck out of there.

It feels so fucking good.

 

* * *

 

what's my name, you ask them one day, and they look at you like you're insane.

here's your file, they say.

the winter soldier, it reads.

then they put you back in the ice and it's so cold so cold so cold

 

* * *

 

The man with the eyepatch escapes and so you shoot him in the chest in the apartment from the building opposite.

Someone comes running.

He flips a disc at you, something red and blue and white - how patriotic, the sense of humour you have left in your scoffs - and you catch it, thrown off guard, but it feels like it's been in your hands for a long time, now. You toss it back and there's an expression on his face that can be classified as shock, you think, and you're pretty proud because you've gotten quite good at this now, analysing expressions, and before he can react you're jumping off the roof.

You wonder about that disc for a while, how nice and home-like it felt in your hand. Your metal hand.

 

* * *

 

  _Targets: Natasha Romanoff. Steve Rogers. And anyone who interferes._

 

* * *

 

You punch through the roof, yank Sitwell out and send him flying into a truck. There's a scream and then silence. 

Everyone starts moving all at once.

Your grenade sends the blond from before sprawling, off the bridge and down below. You take out your machine gun and search for him, but the Romanoff bitch is still alive; there's a loud bang and a bullet that would've taken out your eye and some bits of your brain deflects off of your mask. Target switch, evidently.

You snap 'round run after her, ignoring passers-by as they ducked for cover.

You're fast. She's faster. But you catch up. 

(you always did)

She's cornered, you think, and drop a grenade by the truck you think she is near, but suddenly strong thighs are around your neck and wrapping around your shoulders, and her fists are pounding heavily on your back. Reflexes sink in and you both grapple, but she tenses when you grab her and that gives you the upper hand. You throw her onto the hood of a car and aim to finish her off, but the man with the disc is back and the best you can get is a shot in the dark - one that gives you a dark satisfaction when you hear her curse.

Then it begins, the fight. 

The real one.

You fire round after round at him, but his fucking disc of a shield makes them seem like Nerf darts, the way they simply glanced off. He pounces forward and you lunge with your knife instead, ready to stab it into his throat - you've killed that way before, and though it may be messy it sure is hella effective - but he grabs your hand and twists it; you hear a snap and yank back, the knife dropping to the ground. You swipe at him anyway, and get a satisfactory blow out of it - pain, pain, pain, but there are things far worse than pain and things scarier than death.

(memory?)

You blink, but the moment is gone, and you lash out. In the confusion he loses his grip on the shield; you yank it out of his hands. A mingle of emotions spreads across his face: fear, confusion, shock, but you hurl it at him with every ounce of strength you have.

It takes a swerve mid-air and sinks itself into a van nearby, and that would spell failure for any other soldier, but you're not any other soldier. You've killed people with your bare hands, ripped out their throats, strangled till their eyes popped out their heads. You remember things like this, people screaming and people begging for mercy, but you don't remember all of it

(do you remember)

(do you ever remember?)

_(shut the fuck up and let me kill him)_

You tense, but he's already coming at you. 

He snaps back and lunges and you feel yourself flying backwards - flying and falling all at once, and you're reminded

(but where did the memory come from?)

that the world is never as beautiful as it is when things are moving at such a breakneck pace; it's stealing all air from your lungs and all space for thought from your head - you hear the crack as the blow registers in your mind much too slowly and the mask is ripped from you. 

Your mind goes blank; you anticipate the shudder that courses through your entire body split seconds before impact with the cold metal of the vehicle. 

The mask clatters feet away.

For a glorious moment you forget why you are here and what you are doing. For one moment, that half second of time it takes you to shake off the force of the impact, you breathe, and the ice flooding your veins ebbs into a gentle, warm pulse. (It's what it should be, except you've forgotten that there was a time that was the norm for you.) Then it rushes back in, the colours, the commands, the control -  _mind over body, remember, soldier?  -_ and you leap back into action, the wind like the touch of a cold blade against your bare face. 

But he's looking, and there's a flash of something in his eyes that makes you wait.

Makes you hold your ground and look him over, wary 

_(terrified)_

Maybe it makes you scared, how much emotion is in his eyes, how human it is. Raw and vulnerable and horrid, horribly human. (Maybe you remembered, just for a moment, what it was like to be able to hold so much emotion in your chest, till it was full to bursting and escaped through your eyes.) Maybe you're curious, maybe you would've been. It stirs in you, something forgotten, something that's there but isn't - the same way your arm's still there in place of the awful metal one they replaced it with, the same way it still throbs at times even though flesh is metal and veins are wiring to keep you on your feet - and it's a phantom pain but god does it hurt.

(And maybe there's recognition on his face but you're goddamn awful at registering that sort of thing and so you falter.) 

_'Bucky?'_

he says, and you start towards him, fingers curling around your Beretta. The ice creeps back and your lips feel numb, everywhere is numb, but you stare him down. 

The cogs turn in your head. (You're confused and you're scared.) You bite the inside of your cheek and let the thoughts fade, let the cold replace the impulses in your head. And you shift back into position -  _reporting for duty, Sir._

_'Who the hell is Bucky?'_

He opens his mouth as if to say something, and you fire.

It's so easy. You pull the trigger, but time seems to slow. You hear the pop - the boom, rather, and the feedback makes your ears ring in a way that sounds like someone is screaming (someone is, the someone inside you)

Someone is pounding his fists against your ribcage and screaming a name you don't remember, a name you'll never remember, now, at least not the way you should -

someone is crying and someone is screaming still about paint and fingers and a pattern distilled into skin and someone is talking about a kiss and cookies and drawings and baby blue eyes and that someone is dying and he's dying inside of you but you can't pull him out

you can't

_(please help me please help me please help me)_

He's not moving.

You drop and roll as the explosion first rings in your ears, filling your head with a white noise that never seems to end.

 

* * *

 

you'll be okay now he says and his lips ghost over your forehead in your dreams and he's beautiful and he's everything and he's nothing all at once

i love you you say and he laughs

i love you too

you idiot 

 

* * *

 

Your eyes open.

You're sitting in the small room with the funny people with guns and watching as he - the doctor, you think, but it doesn't register properly, nothing seems to right then - makes sparks fly from your bionic arm. It's yours but it's not; you wish it weren't because it isn't, it's not supposed to be but you don't remember a time where you didn't have it. You don't remember at all, really: the thoughts in your head are of present and perhaps that's what they want from you - they want obedience and compliance and thought, memory prevents someone from thinking clearly.

_(bucky)_

You blink and suddenly you're falling again.

This time's different. This time there's screaming but it's not you who's screaming, and this time you are flying and falling all at once and something's wrong with this but you don't know what. 

Then you stop falling and instead you're on a cold metal table and they are putting the ice in you - the ice as they always do, cold and hot and horrible and beautiful all at once and it makes you scream but they don't stop. There's a sound of whirring and they're petting your side as they cut the remainder of the flesh arm off and replace it with the new. You're their little pet project and you know it but you never remember it long enough for the memory to be of any use to you. All you can do is scream, so that is what you do. You scream and scream till your throat is hoarse and they only feed you more of the ice till you're both crying and screaming but no sound is coming out. Then you stop screaming and you're lying there with the tears still drying on your cheeks and they come over, one of them

_(and_ _you bite)_

you close your fingers around his neck and squeeze and the metal hand sparks and burns but the ice drowns you in euphoria so it only hurts for a second before the coolness floods in. 

The ice the ice the ice the ice  _the ice the ice_

They push it into you and you scream; you fight but what are you fighting for? It fills your head and clouds your vision till all you can see is spots of black and blue - but no, all you can see is that particular shade of blue, the blue of - but you forget again, over and over, because the ice makes you forget. The ice makes you get up and shoot and the ice makes you do it all over again. You hate the ice and you hate how it rips all your memories away but what good are memories to a killing machine? - you close your eyes but you're not sleeping, you're never sleeping and the dreams never come

You sit up and one careless twist sends the doctor flying (falling) and there's the sound of a gun being loaded but the adrenaline is pumping in your blood and there is no room for fear.

They surround you, all of them, faces contorted in expressions trying not to betray the way their hearts are thumping as they keep their fingers steady on the trigger. Any of them could kill you. But they won't.

They won't because you're their little soldier; you're their little pet and a pet that behaves erratically is disciplined rather than put down. 

 _He_ comes in, tie and smirk and you can't register him, either, because nothing makes sense and all is a blur. All that is constant is the ice. The ice, eating away at you, running cold fingers down your spine till gooseflesh rises on your arm and on the one that is ever present though it is already gone - they took it but they will never take it from you, not in the way that will matter but in the way that matters to you. It is confusing, to say the least, even to follow this train  of thought. That's what's good for you, isn't it? Confusion, and handicapping your means of thought.

'Mission report.'

You can't focus on his face. You feel the tension building and it's no surprise when the blow comes after he repeats himself for the third time. 

_(bucky)_

You snap back to present and move your eyes to  _his_ face, trying to make out the blurred features - nose, eyes, eyebrows. 'That man on the bridge,' You say, and the words are lead on your tongue, and they don't matter, because he's dead. You shot him. But there was something about him, something that makes you burn and makes the ice falter a little, leave room for curiosity in their little super-soldier's head. 'Who was he?'

_but I knew him._

_I knew him._

They don't put you in ice this time, they put metal between your teeth and strap you down in the chair and they make you scream.

But the ice lingers.

 

* * *

 

 

You say you feel like dying, but

You'd take it back, you'd do it all over again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Bucky didn't go to Sarah's funeral - "how was it" pretty much did that for me - but I really adored the idea o' him going, not just for Steve, but I think Bucky would've loved Sarah too...that was bittersweet for me.
> 
> Okay. So this entire fic was an emotional rollercoaster for me. Number one, because it was unrequited. "I LOVE YOU" was never exchanged between the two. Number two because it took a lot out of me, writing their backgrounds and little snippets of their childhood I thought would be nice. Number three, the smut. DON'T KILL ME I HAVE REASONS. That may have seemed rushed or forced, and I don't blame you if you think so. I wanted to delete the drafts of this so many times, but for some godawful reason I kept it. Goddamn.
> 
> I SHOULD PROBABLY GO CRY NOW GOODBYE
> 
> My fandom Instagram if you'd like to chat is @smol_asiansatan, and you can find me on Tumblr [ here.](http://theswiftone27.tumblr.com)


End file.
